Pipe and Pouch Part 6

Each temperately 'baccy _plenus_, May no grim fate of doubtful genus E'er blow the smallest cloud between us.

And as his gift I shall devote To fire, and o'er their ashes gloat,-- Let him do likewise with this note.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

[From "The Letters of James Russell Lowell." Copyright, 1893, by Harper & Brothers.]

AN ENCOMIUM ON TOBACCO.

Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And thus produce so rich a Margarite!

It is the fountain whence all pleasure springs, A potion for imperial and mighty kings.

He that is master of so rich a store May laugh at Croesus and esteem him poor; And with his smoky sceptre in his fist, Securely flout the toiling alchemist, Who daily labors with a vain expense In distillations of the quintessence, Not knowing that this golden herb alone Is the philosopher's admired stone.

It is a favor which the G.o.ds doth please, If they do feed on smoke, as Lucian says.

Therefore the cause that the bright sun doth rest At the low point of the declining west-- When his oft-wearied horses breathless pant-- Is to refresh himself with this sweet plant, Which wanton Thetis from the west doth bring, To joy her love after his toilsome ring: For 'tis a cordial for an inward smart, As is dictamnum to the wounded hart.

It is the sponge that wipes out all our woe; 'Tis like the thorn that doth on Pelion grow, With which whoe'er his frosty limbs anoints, Shall feel no cold in fat or flesh or joints.

'Tis like the river, which whoe'er doth taste Forgets his present griefs and sorrows past.

Music, which makes grim thoughts retire, And for a while cease their tormenting fire,-- Music, which forces beasts to stand and gaze, And fills their senseless spirits with amaze,-- Compared to this is like delicious strings, Which sound but harshly while Apollo sings.

The train with this infumed, all quarrel ends, And fiercest foemen turn to faithful friends; The man that shall this smoky magic prove, Will need no philtres to obtain his love.

Yet the sweet simple, by misordered use, Death or some dangerous sickness may produce.

Should we not for our sustentation eat Because a surfeit comes from too much meat?

So our fair plant--that doth as needful stand As heaven, or fire, or air, or sea, or land; As moon, or stars that rule the gloomy night, Or sacred friendship, or the sunny light-- Her treasured virtue in herself enrolls, And leaves the evil to vainglorious souls.

And yet, who dies with this celestial breath Shall live immortal in a joyful death.

All goods, all pleasures it in one can link-- 'Tis physic, clothing, music, meat, and drink.

G.o.ds would have revell'd at their feasts of mirth With this pure distillation of the earth; The marrow of the world, star of the West, The pearl whereby this lower orb is blest; The joy of mortals, umpire of all strife, Delight of nature, mithridate of life; The daintiest dish of a delicious feast, By taking which man differs from a beast.

ANONYMOUS: _Time, James I._

ON A TOBACCO JAR.

Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight and gentlemanne Did bring me here, to charm and chere, To physical and mental manne.

G.o.d bless his soule who filled ye bowle, And may our blessings find him; That he not miss some share of blisse Who left soe much behind him.

BERNARD BARKER.

TO THE TOBACCO PIPE.

Dear piece of fascinating clay!

'Tis thine to smooth life's rugged way, To give a happiness unknown To those--who let a pipe alone; Thy tube can best the vapors chase, By raising--others in their place; Can give the face staid Wisdom's air, And teach the lips--to ope with care; 'Tis hence thou art the truest friend (Where least is said there's least to mend), And he who ventures many a joke Had better oft be still and smoke.

Whatever giddy foplings think, Thou giv'st the highest zest to drink.

When fragrant clouds thy fumes exhale, And hover round the nut-brown ale, Who thinks of claret or champagne?

E'en burgundy were pour'd in vain.

'Tis not in city smoke alone, Midst fogs and glooms thy charms are known.

With thee, at morn, the rustic swain Tracks o'er the snow-besprinkled plain, To seek some neighb'ring copse's side, And rob the woodlands of their pride: With thee, companion of his toil, His active spirits ne'er recoil; Though hard his daily task a.s.sign'd, He bears it with an equal mind.

The fisher 'board some little bark, When all around is drear and dark, With shortened pipe beguiles the hour, Though bleak the wind and cold the show'r, Nor thinks the morn's approach too slow, Regardless of what tempests blow.

Midst hills of sand, midst ditches, dikes, Midst cannons, muskets, halberts, pikes; With thee, as still, Mynheer can stay, As Neddy 'twixt two wisps of hay; Heedless of Britain and of France, Smokes on--and looks to the main chance.

And sure the solace thou canst give Must make thy fame unrivalled live, So long as men can temper clay (For as thou art, e'en so are they), The sun mature the Indian weed, And rolling years fresh sorrows breed.

From _The Meteors_, London.

THE PATRIOTIC SMOKER'S LAMENT.

Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the truest type, When that too devoted valet Quenched your first-recorded pipe, Were you pondering the opinion, As you watched the airy coil, That the virtue of Virginia Might be bred in British soil?

You transplanted the potato, 'Twas a more enduring gift Than the wisdom of a Plato To our poverty and thrift.

That respected root has flourished n.o.bly for a nation's need, But our brightest dreams are nourished Ever on a foreign weed.

From the deepest meditation Of the philosophic scribe, From the poet's inspiration, For the cynic's polished gibe, We invoke narcotic nurses In their jargon from afar, I indite these modest verses On a polyglot cigar.

Leaf that lulls a Turkish Aga May a scholar's soul renew, Fancy spring from Larranaga, History from honey-dew.

When the teacher and the tyro Spirit-manna fondly seek, 'Tis the cigarette from Cairo, Or a compound from the Greek.

But no British-born aroma Is fit incense to the Queen, Nature gives her best diploma To the alien nicotine.

We are doomed to her ill-favor, For the plant that's native grown Has a patriotic flavor Too exclusively our own.

O my country, could your smoker Boast your "s.h.a.g," or even "twist,"

Every man were mediocre Save the blest tobacconist!

He will point immortal morals, Make all common praises mute, Who shall win our grateful laurels With a national cheroot.

_The St. James Gazette_.

TO AN OLD PIPE.